Functioning
by Lyonessheart
Summary: Sometimes functioning just isn't enough


You are thirteen the night you stop living, not that it really makes much of a difference, seeing that emotion was always something forbidden anyways.

But still when he comes to your room, this night something dies that you did not know it was still there.

It hurts but you refuse to cry.

You function perfectly and the next day you return to school. Poised and calm as always.

This year goes by in a flurry of thoughts, a hippogryph attacking you. And you know it was your fault, but seeing as you have to keep functioning you blame everyone else, not you never you.

You come home, or what people would call you're the house you grew up in, not a home never a home.

You function perfectly, even at night when he comes to you.

The night you turn fourteen he is not alone, and still you function. You ask no questions anymore, never.

When you come back in fall, there is another boy that functions perfectly, and you find yourself looking at him for a second too long, but then you turn away.

He functions perfectly, throwing himself into the danger just as expected and you stand back, your mouth twisting and curving in the way it has to, you walk to class and exceed in your classes, all the way throwing hurtful words at him.

And he functions and snarls back, trying to hurt you, and somehow you both know that this is useless, you function perfectly and know how you have to react.

The summer after this year confronts you with the choice of functioning or dying, you function but she begs for you, throws herself at his feet and begs him to give you more time, at least until you turn 17.

He beats her nearly to death, but you show no emotion, you function although that night; these wet trails won't stop, so you just let them continue.

The next morning brings you the notice that you have more time, and you just nod and accept it.

It is not as if you have a say in the matter.

When the summer ends and you turn fifteen, your father brings you to the station, you have strict instructions, and you follow them, although in the end when you know that father won't be there and you have that other boy pinned to the wall beneath you, telling him "I'll have you!" you don't quite function as it was expected.

When you come back this summer, you go up to her and smile. This is the closest that you will ever come to showing affection, and she knows.

When you turn sixteen he is not there and you have started to sleep rather than lie awake and stare at the ceiling, your skin is not quite as pale and your eyes shine not quite as cold anymore.

The year goes by quietly and you catch yourself wondering why the other boy still keeps going, his actions seem as forced as yours and he is obviously purely functioning.

His friends don't notice they just let him be, drowning his sorrow in their incessant chattering, the red haired girl hanging from his arm oblivious to his mental absence.

Only when he catches you looking at him, he seems to swim back to the surface of his anguish, your exchanges small gulps of air that he takes before drowning again.

Late one night you find him sitting in front of a mirror fascinated and silent, you watch and something touches the thing that's supposed to be your soul, or whatever is left of it.

You come back from then on, and you watch.

Then the night before you have to go back, the black owl about which you have secretly wondered if it ever will show up, gives you the notice of your freedom, and although you should function you simply stop.

And when you kiss him, he doesn't taste like vanilla and cinnamon, he tastes like tears and sweat and dirt, and it's the flavour you know you will always be addicted to, even if that is the only time you will ever feel these rough chapped lips on your smooth ones, and you find that you couldn't care less, as you slide your hands under his robes.

But somehow you both have stopped functioning long ago, and he doesn't care anymore than you do about the consequences.

When you feel his skin against yours and his tears pool in the hollow of your throat, and he whispers your name like a prayer, something shifts again and you notice yourself holding him just a bit tighter and caressing his skin just a bit softer.

And when his supposedly best friends wake you in the morning with an ear-splitting scream he just holds you tighter and tells them to go to hell.

And when you stand there in front of the whole school, everybody gawking at you, you wonder why you haven't done this before. You know the answer.

Maybe functioning never really was enough to begin with.


End file.
